


Unshackled

by tracingdandelions



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, This occurs between episode 109 and episode 110, basically everything that Yasha's been through, implied tension between Yasha and Beau, implied trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracingdandelions/pseuds/tracingdandelions
Summary: The blade catches the light as she pulls her hair taut, placing the edge of it on the border of light and dark. She’s done this countless times to others. It would be so easy, just a flick of the wrist.But she can’t.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	Unshackled

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off some fanart done by al-norton on Tumblr of Yasha with a buzz cut. It got me thinking about what hair can mean, and all that symbolism jazz, I hope you enjoy!

Yasha stands at the basin of her attached bathroom of her room at the Lavish Chateau. Eyes flick over her form in the finely polished mirror and low light of the candles. She hadn’t looked at herself in a long time. Not like this. Maybe in the passing of a puddle after a calming storm, or the clean glass of a storefront. Those momentary pauses she took to make sure she was still her. That she was still in control. Now, she stares at herself, taking stock of everything. The width of her shoulders, the vines that now wrap around her arm, the armor that holds too many memories.

Even as she looks her eyes always manage to find their way to the newest part of her. Newer even than the light fluttering of feathered wings and the still fresh sting of the needle. Ever since Caduceus had pointed it out this afternoon, changing to resemble her, she had been anxious to see it for herself. 

It wasn’t much. No longer than a finger nail’s length or so. Yet, she couldn’t stop herself from staring at it. From gently running her fingers through it, shifting her hair from side to side to make sure it wasn’t just a fluke. A trick of the light. No matter how much she played with it. It was still there. Stark against the tumultuous storm of black hair.

Her roots were growing in a soft white, somewhat akin to the faded tips.

And Yasha was enthralled.

But something tickled the back of her mind. Made her fingers leave her scalp and move towards the ends. Through the breaking grey into the blinding light. She works the hair through her fingers, coarse and thick as always.

It makes her remember.

It makes her heart hurt.

She had told Caduceus that it was like it was before. She had failed to tell him exactly when. Of the days leading up to their execution. How happy she had been then even knowing the consequences. Without their tribe’s permission, they didn’t have the same formalities. Instead braiding each other’s hair into the intricate weaves of marriage. Yasha had taken her time untangling Zuala’s hair. Her fingers deft as they plaited. Her heart yearned for something more to give her. Something beautiful.

When she was done, she turned her back as Zuala shifted to her hair. It was shorter then, of course, and white as freshly fallen snow. She had taken the time to make sure it was decently clean that morning. Not that Zuala would have minded. The soft pressure of Zuala’s hands made her close her eyes. Savoring the moment as her hair was given the same respect. 

All too soon it was over. But when she turned, and saw her. Her heart stopped, and all she could do was hold her hands out for Zuala to take. 

The ceremony was short, as the two quietly recited the vows. It was the happiest Yasha had ever been, hidden behind a large hill, her love in her arms. She felt like she could take on the world.

But nothing good lasts. Someone had seen them, and they were reported. Sentenced to death. And being the coward she was. She ran.

Her memories after that are spotty, mostly empty. Save for the clarity of the Stormlord’s altar. The rolling storm in the back of her skull quieting enough for her to breathe under its gaze. Lightning splitting the sky in arcs of blazing light almost bright enough to blind. The thunder is an echoing reminder of its strength, low and threatening.

She bent her head and prayed. After all, she had nothing else to lose.

The Stormlord had come to her. Like a beacon after being lost at sea, she followed him. Listened to him. Did whatever she could to abide by his guidance. It was through him that she had found Molly.

Her heart twinges again. Uncertain this time, as it almost seems like he’s tied into their current situation. Or at least whoever he used to be is.

Molly and the circus had provided her something akin to a home. It wasn’t permanent, always on the move from town to town. But it was something, and that’s what mattered. They didn’t question her there, not even when she left for weeks at a time to answer the Stormlord’s call. They gave her the room to be. Showed her the beauty of people and the world around here. It was so much different than the bleak moorlands. Plants grew in colors other than grey-greens, and with her first pay, she bought a leather bound journal, pressing every petal and stem she could find.

It was there she had finally looked at herself again. The reflection shifting and uncertain in the murky rain barrel. But the change was as clear as day. Her hair was no longer white, or rather, no longer coming in white. The roots were black as coal, diluting into the white she was accustomed to towards the ends. Her hands combed through the locks, catching on old braids now tangled together. Her fingers stilled and she couldn’t bring herself to remove them. Couldn’t find the strength to untangle the knots.

She had found Molly a few hours later and asked him how long her hair had been black. He thought for a moment before telling her it had always been that way. That he assumed she was growing it back out. It was… troublesome to hear. A little tickle in the back of her head. But she accepted it. It really didn’t matter what her hair looked like after all.

After that she had met the people who would become the Mighty Nein, and eventually, the closest thing she had to a family. So much had changed since that day. Molly was gone, Veth was no longer a goblin, the war was diverted for the time being, and through it all, they were still together.

Her gaze moves upwards towards the tangle of black she had become so used to. She had put new braids into it, working around the old ones over time. Replacing them every so often as it grew out. She hadn’t realized how long it had gotten, reaching almost to the small of her back. Absentmindedly, she runs a hand down the length of it, eyes still focused on the shadowy bulk. 

It’s hard not to think of the times it had turned jet black, her skeletal wings ripping from her back, terrifying those around her. Reminiscent of the fleeting feelings she had before the Stormlord, of the feelings welling up in her under Obann. The anger that had come unbidden, and the sadistic pleasure that had come with it. How scared she had been under it all. Her hand balls into a fist, taking with it strands of hair at the thought. At what she did. Her breathing stutters, and without thinking, she reaches to her thigh and brings up a dagger.

The blade catches the light as she pulls her hair taut, placing the edge of it on the border of light and dark. She’s done this countless times to others. It would be so easy, just a flick of the wrist. 

But she can’t.

She lowers the blade and leans forward onto the basin, eyes searching. It all feels like too much. But she wants it gone. She locks eyes with herself, seafoam green and violet meeting themselves. There’s a deep breath before she’s pushing away from the mirror, refusing to glance back at it. She goes to the first door her mind can think of, and just as she’s about to knock, she hesitates.

Maybe it was a stupid idea. Better to leave the surface unbothered than face what was under the water. But she needs this. Her knuckles rap against the wood loud enough for its occupant to hear and no one else. She waits a sickening moment, internally debating whether to run again before the door opens.

Beau stands in the doorway, changed from her daily outfit into something more comfortable for the night, hair tossed into a messier bun than usual. Yasha can’t help but admire her for a second before she catches an almost imperceptible shift as Beau’s eyes drop to the dagger she still clutches like a lifeline. Her hand rises towards her sternum but falters halfway, before she crosses her arms and clears her throat.

“Oh, uh.”, she leans against the doorjamb, arms tight across her chest, “Hey Yasha, what’s up?”

She loosens her grip on her blade, tries to make herself smaller, less intimidating. 

“I uh…” Yasha looks the hallway up and down even though it’s almost too late for anyone to be up, save for her or Beau, “Could you come to my room?”

She’s staring at her boots and misses the shift of Beau’s expression to something softer, less guarded. 

“Yasha?”, her name falls from Beau’s lips, almost too quiet to catch.

She looks back up, eyes locking into tumultuous blue, “I need you to do something for me”

Yasha’s moving before she can give her an answer, back down the hallway to her room. Beau watches for a moment before quietly closing her door and padding after her, the wood cool against her bare feet. Yasha opens the door and invites her in first, nodding towards the still lit bathroom. Beau makes her way in and takes a seat on the edge of the large bathtub, waiting as Yasha takes the chair from the desk and brings it to the washbasin.

She flips the blade hilt first and holds it out to a confused Beau, who obligingly takes it.

Yash turns to her, words raspy against her throat, as if they’re pleading to not be said.

“I need you to cut my hair”

Beau locks eyes with her again, that same tumbling sea staring back. But she doesn’t question why, doesn’t comment that Yasha has more experience than her and would be better at it. Just gets up and stands behind her. The two reflected in the mirror staring at each other.

“Okay, how long were you thinking?”

This is why it’s Beau. Why it’s always been Beau. Her unwavering loyalty had proven her over and over again. Even now, when Yasha’s more than certain she wants to ask more, to understand what and why and how, she doesn’t. She wasn’t always like this, didn’t always have this patience. It was something else that had grown along with them. Something that had changed.

She pulls her hair back, “Almost to the scalp”, the words have little substance, mere whispers on the wind, but Beau catches the movement and nods her head. She gets a feel for the sharpness of the blade against a towel, and makes a mental note to leave Marion a few silver for the shredded fabric. Satisfied that it’ll do the job, she returns to her position behind Yasha, arms poised but not moving.

“May I?”, she asks, nodding her head towards Yasha’s.

The ghost of a laugh escapes the jail of her teeth and Yasha nods, “I don’t know how else you would do it”

Beau laughs to herself, more nervous than anything, “Right”, before she gently takes a strand of her hair.

Yasha closes her eyes as Beau takes stock of what she’s working with. Can’t help but remember the times this had happened before. She hadn’t had her hair played with in a long time. Maybe that could change. Her hair is shifted a few times before only a part of it is grasped between Beau’s fingers.

It’s happening before she even realizes it, too focused on the methodical motion of Beau’s hands against her scalp. How she carefully moves Yasha’s head for better angles. The pieces fall to the floor without a sound. It isn’t until a cool breeze billows through the curtains does she miss the weight of hair against her neck, the warmth she never noticed it provided. A chill shoots down her spine and suddenly she’s nervous to look. Anxious at what she just did, what she made Beau do.

But Beau came of her own accord. She didn’t force her, barely even asked her to do it. She was Beau, and neither of them would hold it against the other.

The hands still against her skull before lightly asking her to tilt her head forward, and then to each side. There’s a few more quick movements before Beau takes a step back, Yasha almost immediately missing the heat that seemed to radiate from her.

“You wanna take a look?”

Yasha nods, eyes still closed. She feels Beau step up next to her and hears the dagger being placed on the counter, steel against stone. A hand brushes hers and she takes it, fingers intertwining.

She inhales deeply before her eyes slowly open, adjusting to the dim light of the bathroom.

Her breath catches as she looks at herself, her free hand instinctively moving to her scalp. It’s softer than she expected but prickly at the same time. It’s a little patchy, but it’ll grow out. She runs her fingers over it, almost missing the heft, the weight of it all. But as she tilts her head, the light of the candles catches it, her hair slightly illuminated by the flame. A translucent halo framing her face. She smiles and tastes the salty tang of tears as they roll down her face.

She tilts her head down at the knots tightly coiled around each other, intricately woven braids, and months of growth piled in mounds on the floor. Months of change, of success, of failure. She feels lighter than she ever has. Lighter than when the mental binding of Obann was finally extinguished from her neck. Lighter even than when her wings sprang forth, fully fledged, and she had taken off into the sky to catch Beau. She no longer feels beholden to that time. No longer shackled.

She exhales.

“Thank you Beau”

Beau only smiles back and squeezes her hand, too intent watching her find herself.

She’s finally free.


End file.
